


Monsters Come Out at Night

by DarknessBetweenTheStars



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: F/F, Face-Sitting, First Time Topping, Lesbian Sex, Light BDSM, Vaginal Fingering, all she cares about is the bones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:27:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27627449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarknessBetweenTheStars/pseuds/DarknessBetweenTheStars
Summary: After yet another failed murder attempt on the Saint of Duty, Harrowhark gets homesick for the old ways of The Ninth. She reluctantly allows Ianthe to comfort her.
Relationships: Harrowhark Nonagesimus & Ianthe Tridentarius, Harrowhark Nonagesimus/Ianthe Tridentarius
Comments: 14
Kudos: 77





	Monsters Come Out at Night

You were desperately lonely. And ravenously hungry for something you couldn’t even give name to; totally aching for it. But you knew—you absolutely knew, deep down into your soul--you weren’t going to find it tonight. Not there. Not ever there.

Logic didn't stop you. Which is how you found yourself outside of Ianthe Tridentarius’ bedroom door. She had already seen you naked, broken and bleeding. Ripped apart, and covered in sick. Dismissed and mocked by everyone around you. What was one more atrocity added to your list of crimes that made you unforgivable? Your elaborately planned murder plot had failed. And in the terrible aftermath, God himself proved once again that he did not believe you, or your accounting of events. How much more could you take?

You steeled your nerves for what you were about to do, and repressed a shudder. Then almost in slow motion-- as if there was still a brief chance of turning back—you raised your hand, and knocked. Ianthe opened the door cautiously; sleep clouding her eyes and handicapping her movements. She stood in front of you wearing nothing besides a ruffled buttercup monstrosity of a barely there nightgown, which, as always, gaped in the front. Mocking your prudishness. She opened her mouth to question likely both your arrival, and your shitty physical appearance. Before she could even speak, you placed your hand on her sternum, shoved her backwards into her room, and slammed the door behind you.

“Harrow, what are you do--” she tried to ask, for the second time. But you grabbed her left mandible in your right hand, and tugged her mouth down to yours. You kissed your sister lyctor, hard and forcefully, in a truly disgusting display of carnality. Tongues lashed against each other, and you ate her face like an eager cannibal tasting human flesh for the first time. The irony of this did not escape you, given whom exactly you were kissing.

Ianthe broke away from you momentarily--despite your best efforts--and began to speak. “Well. This is definitely not how I saw tonight going after your little confession earlier this evening. Who knew a little murder was all it took to get a Ninth House nun all hot and bothered.”

You didn’t have the patience to inform her your target remained alive, your failure left to haunt you for another day. You were so used to always getting what you wanted, in those early days back at home on The Ninth. You wanted to remember again, just once, what that felt like. Even though every atom of your being knew: this was not quite it. But in a night already overflowing with mind altering substances, geriatric sex-capades, and foiled murder attempts-- you were just too overwhelmed to care.

So you kissed the only woman you hated more than yourself, for a second time, twining your tongues together, tasting the wine, and blood tang of her mouth. Slowly, you directed her to sit back onto her bed, so your squelching, sloppy mouths were on a more even level. She broke the kiss again to gaze at you with those awful chimera eyes that always haunted you before saying, “take off your clothes Harry. You’re dusty, and filthy, and you smell like a barbeque.” You paused, just for a brief second; questioning every life choice you had ever made that led up to this moment. Then lifted the dinner napkin Ianthe had called a dress over your head.

The brief moment of darkness caused by the fabric passing over your face gave you welcome respite from perceiving the margarine lyctor in front of you. But you knew—this song and dance was just the required precursor to you getting what you really wanted, what you truly came here for. She had to realize that despite your want, you barely knew what the hell you were doing. You decided to let her guide you toward her needs and desires first, before taking charge of your own.

She glanced up and down, taking in your body appreciatively, before running her long, pale fingers across the span of your small chest. She stopped to tweak one of your nipples, and an involuntary moan escaped your mouth. You leaned forward and kissed her again, as she ran both of her thumbs over your now peaked nipples. The gold, metallic thumb was cold as ice, and sent an extra shock straight down to your core. You began to actually enjoy it then. Awakening to the new sensations, and adjusting to your body’s biological responses to her touch.

So that was what this felt like.

Ianthe’s fingertips cascaded over your skin, further and further down to your belly. Delicately, like she thought you might break. As if you weren’t long past broken. She reached your hips, pausing to ease your black underwear off over your legs. The naked shock on her face told you she still couldn’t believe this was happening. A shameless pervert, finally getting what she desired the most. (After lyctorhood, of course.)

You knew if you let her, she’d worship you like you worshipped The Body in the locked tomb. But not yet. You had other business to attend to first.

You reached forward to cup her chin, and asked: “Do you trust me?”

“Yes”, said Ianthe.

“If we do this—it needs to be on my terms. You’ll do what I say…”

“Whatever, Harrow. Just touch me already.”

“Swear it.”

“FINE. I swear under the vow of the sewn tongue, that I will only use _my_ tongue to do exactly as you ask…”

You gave in with an exasperated sigh, and then continued the task at hand.

Which currently involved your traitorous hands, lifting Ianthe Tridentarius’ cupcake impersonating nightgown up over her head. Of course she had nothing on underneath.

You leaned forward to kiss her again, sweeping your tongue into her mouth, as you moved to straddle her hips. Ianthe gasped at the surprise of it, then traced her fingers up your back, stroking, scratching at your naked skin. You moaned again. It was so new, and so much. But it felt so good to finally feel something besides pain, and loss overwhelming your entire being.

You kissed down her neck, biting a little near her collarbone, eliciting another whine of pleasure from her mouth. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, speeding up even more as you took one of her pink, perky nipples into your mouth, and sucked.

You would give her exactly what she wanted, to make her supple, and pliant for what was to come. Whatever that took. But you sidelined your nefarious plotting for a few moments, and tried to live in the moment, and enjoy the fact that you had a nipple in your mouth. Which you found startlingly arousing.

Ianthe’s breath hitched at your touch, before she reached down, and pulled your mouth back up to hers. You let her kiss you as you’d never been kissed before. Her tongue searched your mouth like a desperate, probing invader. Leaving you gasping against her mouth. You pushed away thoughts of how this would completely and irrevocably fuck up your life; that myriad of an existence the two of you would face together as sister-lyctors. Your pure desperation and desire to feel something that was not pain made you careless.

Sweat soaked your skin. Her hands were all over your body, one tantalizingly much colder than the other. It set your very being on fire. Finally being touched in a way you had been denied for so long. You ground your pelvis against Ianthe’s waist, before she groaned, and flipped you sideways, and back onto the bed.

You laid naked and totally exposed before her. A devilish grin spread across her ghostly pale face, as she took in the view. A sudden movement; long hair tickled across your stomach, and her mouth was back on your nipple, pain and pleasure mixing together as she suckled the swollen peak. Teeth gnashed, and you let out an unrestrained gasp, even louder than the last.

Her left hand caressed your other breast, then drifted lower, dancing over your skin until it reached the peak between your thighs. You were soaking wet then. A fact that earned you another knowing smirk from Ianthe. 

“Tell me you haven’t been dying for this to happen, Harry. Absolutely starving for me to get my hands on you.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Tridentarius.”

“Your sweet lies are always such pretty music to my ears.”

Your patience grew thin again. This was another distraction from what you really came for. What made you creep back to Ianthe’s room like a revenant seeking its former body, desperate for one last grasp at the past.

Control.

“Remember what you agreed to, Ianthe. My terms, or this doesn’t happen.”

“Yes, yes,” she begrudgingly agreed. Before dipping her practiced fingers between your dampened thighs, and right into your cunt. The pleasure overwhelmed you like nothing else ever had. But this was wrong.

“I’m going to show you what you’ve been denying yourself for so long, Harrowhark.”

“No”, you said, reluctantly lifting her flesh covered hand out of you. “Not that one. That one.”

You pointed toward her gilded bone arm. Your proudest creation since arriving at this hellhole known as the Mithraeum. The only thing here that reminded you of better days.

“Your wish is my command, you creepy little bone pervert”, Ianthe said, while letting loose an amused laugh.

If she had to touch you where no one else had before, at least it would be with something you’d made. All the intense, terrible longing for home evaporated with the first gentle caress of cool gilded bone against your skin. The return of the reverence and adoration someone of your position deserved smoothed out the ragged edges of your soul, like a salve for infected wounds.

She worked her skeleton fingers inside you, one, then two, and then a third. Leaving you moaning in an unrestrained manner that left you ashamed at the pure honesty of it. She curled one finger forward, hitting that sweet spot that threatened to send you over the edge right then and there, while her flesh covered hand reached to grasp your breast. Her wet, sucking mouth moved over your exposed neck, leaving a trail of cooling saliva in its wake.

But this was still wrong somehow. Her touch overwhelmed you. You still hadn’t found the sense of control you searched so desperately for.

“Stop. This still isn’t working for me."

Ianthe groaned, annoyed at the interruption.

“Oh Harry, don’t give up now. We’re just starting to have fun!”

“I have a better idea.”

Then you shoved Ianthe back onto the mattress, and pressed her into the soft sheets, with those gaudy embroidered lilac flowers covering every inch. She looked at you like you were a puzzle she was trying to solve, searching your face for any hint of what was to come. More fun? Or violence? Knowing you, She probably wasn’t sure. You always were such a bitch when you didn’t get your way. Yet she dutifully submitted to your request anyway. (The fact that she submitted at all had to mean she was currently even more desperate than you were.)

One by one, you unfastened and slipped two bone studs out of your ears. With a flick of your wrist, you tossed them to the mattress. Ianthe’s eyes grew wide, she opened her mouth to speak.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Ianthe froze, as two weeny hand-shaped bone constructs rose up, and crawled towards her face. One on each side, the hands swiftly looped around Ianthe’s wrists, restraining her and holding her down onto the bed. She did look scared then. (A fact that secretly thrilled you.) You’d been so powerless, felt so lost since you’d arrived at the Mithraeum. Now, you were finally back in control. The Reverend Daughter, surrounded by a worshipping, adoring supplicant who both feared and adored her.

You reached down toward the pile of discarded ruffles on the floor, and tore a strip of fabric from Ianthe’s awful nightgown. She opened her mouth to protest the destruction, but was silenced by your forceful glare.

“My way, or else”, you said. Which is when it seemed to finally sink in to Ianthe’s lizard brain that she wasn’t the one in control here. She shrugged, as best as she could shrug with her arms restrained over her head. Then let you get to work. You leaned forward, and delicately tied the scrap of chiffon over her eyes. 

There. Perfection.

“What now?” She asked. 

In answer, you inched your aching body forward, and sat on Ianthe Tridentarius’ smug little face. 

“Mhhhhhmmhpphf”, came her muffled response, as she submitted to your demands, and went to work. She moved her tongue up and down between your folds. Circling your clit in a swift, hungry, pattern. You moaned. Over and over. Beginning to lose yourself in the pleasure of it all. But before the intensity overwhelmed you, you tossed one last bone fragment onto the bed. A third small hand sprung up, then skittered forward across the bed, and began working itself between Ianthe’s own dripping wet folds. She screamed then, as it touched her, its bone fingers working ever diligently, as its bone thumb rubbed circles over her clit.

With that taken care of, you focused on your own pleasure. Grinding your hips, moving your hot, aching cunt back and forth onto Ianthe’s thrusting tongue. The room was suddenly an echo chamber, full of a symphony of both of your moans, sounding over and over in sync.

As you rode Ianthe Tridentarius’ face like a rodeo cowboy trying to break a wild horse, you imagined you were home at Drearburh. You heard the Secundarius bell ringing. Smelled the heady mix of incense, ash, and old dust, instead of the putrid apple stench of Ianthe’s dark paradise of a bedroom.

Ianthe gasped as her tongue continued worshipping your cunt, and your bone construct continued exploring her’s ever dutifully behind you.

For the briefest moment of time, you forgot yourself. For those tense, panting moments, you remembered what it felt like for the world itself to revolve around you. You were the Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus. You were the most important person in the room again.

Ianthe screamed in pleasure as she climaxed, a noise you muffled by leaning forward, and pressing yourself even further down onto her face, as you continued grinding along on your mission. You were a monster with a one track mind, oblivious to the thoughts and feelings of the writhing body below you.

Your end rushed every closer. Until finally, you gasped loudly in a desperate, broken wail. As you came, your traitor mouth uttered syllables you did not even understand--- before a shock of pain and dizziness cut you off midway. Blood dripped out your nostrils and left ear, as you slid backwards off of Ianthe’s face, and rolled abruptly onto your side.

“Gross, Harry!” Ianthe said, then stuck her tongue out, and licked off the blood that must have splattered onto her face. You released her from the bone restraints, so she could continue cleaning herself.

Coming down from the high of your climax, you smiled for the first time since you could even remember. A secret smile, there and gone, before she could witness it. She raised her newly freed hands, and took that chiffon blindfold off of her eyes. You felt more like your old self than you had in nearly a year.

But your hard earned inner peace and joy did not last…

Ianthe opened her mouth to speak, and you cut her off. “Don’t. Just go back to sleep”, you said, turning away from her disappointed face, before curling up into a ball, wrapping the blankets over your body, and pretending to sleep. She did not reach for you.

You counted the soft breaths coming from Ianthe, until you were sure she was indeed asleep. You crawled out of the bed, and out the door, padding down the gently lit blue illuminated hallway back to your own room. You would rather risk death at the hands of the Saint of Duty---or the twitching, lurching, unsynchronized corpse of Cytherea the First--- than spend one more minute with your sister lyctor, and face what you’d done head on.

When you reached the safety of your room, you slumped against the door, and collapsed onto the floor in a sticky, exhausted heap.

You were completely and utterly disgusted with yourself.

  
And so was I.

**Author's Note:**

> Title (and very loose plot details) inspired by "Monsters" by All Time Low.
> 
> Thanks to my beta reader for making sure this wasn't _too_ dark and weird.


End file.
